to say it,” she treaded carefully, “but Silas Hogwood was right.” “Hm.” The teacup warped the sound. He sipped and winced. “Goodness, Hulda. There’s a lot of sugar in this.” She shrugged. “Sugar makes sad things better.” She often indulged when she was sad. She’d eaten scads of candy the night Merritt had taken off to Manchester, looking for Ebba Mullan.
